M is for Murder, H is for Homicide
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: One half wants to be his killer. The other, his lover. Only time will tell which will be the victor.
1. Ave Maria: Part 1

M is for Murder, H is for Homicide

**Darkfic! Rated M for**: Violence, gore, sexual content, and subject matter (aka, murder!)

Set in an AU where Jim Moriarty has never confronted Sherlock Holmes, and the first five cases are carried out without his influence (Reichenbach hasn't/won't happen in this story).

(There's going to be a mix of Molliarty and Sherlolly. You've been warned.)

**_All glory and power to the Mofftiss_**

* * *

_M is for Murder_

_H is for Homicide_

_These two things make Sherlock squirm inside_

_One half wants to be his killer_

_The other, his lover_

_Only time will tell which will be the victor_

* * *

It was a mental war, no direct injuries, but with many physical casualties. Bodies lined up in the morgue, bodies in ditches, on tables, hanging from light fixtures, buried deep underground; a great bloody mess. Both sides were kept on their toes, their kingpins standing tall over the mess of the battlefield. One was grim, the other grinning. Neither could tear the other down, as hard as they tried. Walls went up where others came down, bolts loosened, bones broke, blood dribbled down faces.

It was a perfect stalemate of psychological warfare.

* * *

**Case One, Ave Maria**

It was a masterpiece.

Over the altar hung a single body, suspended by thick ropes tied tightly around the wrists, digging deeply into the flesh. A white cloth was draped around the shoulders, detailed like a pastoral stole, white with the bright cherry of oxidized blood. The dead man's face was peaceful, calm, his eyes closed and mouth pulled into a straight line. They had dyed his hair gold to match the angelic image.

"One of your better works, if I must say so myself," purred the voice behind her. His hands slipped from her shoulders down her arms.

"One of the more interesting ones, to say the least," she agreed. Angels in the sanctuary, definitely one of her more exciting ideas. "Do you think it's too flashy for a first go?"

"I think it's perfect, actually. Love the detail on the stole, the blood was patterned beautifully, pet."

"But _you_ did that part."

"Hey, all I did was take a paintbrush to your blueprints, nothing more."

"And helped with the ropes."

"Right, I'm just your slave in this whole ordeal."

"What makes you think that…?"

"You're in charge, you make the plans, and I just do your dirty work." His breath was close to her neck, hot and feral. "So what's my next job, master?"

She laughed; he was being ridiculous. "If you want to assist so badly, you can help me get everything out of here before anyone wakes up."

"I'll be the smoke if you're the candle."

"Why am I the candle?"

"Because you burn brightly and melt when you get hot." He flashed a devilish grin.

Her jaw fell open. "Did you _just_—"

"I did. Come, help me with these?"

* * *

It was a crime scene.

Dust motes flickered in the lights of the sanctuary. The space was dark—perhaps Catholic, based on the decorations—with candles lit up and down the aisles, in the back, and around the altar. The red carpets were undisturbed, the marble of the floor wiped clean. The smell of incense was strong in the air, clouding out the decay and mildew.

Sherlock stood in front of the body, lips pulled back in a snarl. He'd seen people maimed, dismantled, twisted, bloody, and slashed open, but never something like this. The pose, the patterns, the execution. He felt sick. He understood why he was called in—they were dealing with a murderer of the most skilled kind.

"You can see why we went to you," Lestrade said quietly from behind. "We're not used to dealing with this kind of thing."

"That's because this sort of crime isn't to be left for the police," Sherlock replied, not turning from the body. "Have you found any other killings like it?"

"This is the first one." Lestrade stepped forward, standing beside Sherlock. "What can you make of it?"

"It's appropriate, since we're in a church."

"No jokes, Sherlock, this is a crime scene."

"It wasn't a joke, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade. "Look at the body, tell me you don't see the angel."

"I think I've missed it."

Sherlock sighed. "The body is held to the chandelier with ropes, outstretched like Christ on the cross, a mock-up of the stained glass directly behind. There are knives in the back—attached to the flesh, I'll need to see the backside to determine how—sticking out in an array like the feathered wings. White cloth is draped around the neck, hanging down like robes—modern and classic depictions put angels in white robes, but these are deliberately stained with blood. Maybe the victim was a sinner, or unclean in the eyes of the killer, not _good_ enough to be an angel, though poised like one."

"What do you mean, deliberately stained?"

"The body is clean of blood; the wounds either bled little or were washed clean. Our killer was meticulous in the execution."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and nodded absently. "What about the pole sticking out of the chest?"

"Haven't quite pieced that one together yet. Could be a spear, could be a—"

"A _spear_?"

"A medieval instrument for a medieval crime."

Lestrade sniffed at his coffee and grimaced. It would be hard to stomach anything in front of the scene. "Where's John?"

"Out, for the week. Mentioned something about a family commitment." Sherlock turned to the inspector. "I need a partner."

"As you can see, I cannot spare any of my men at the moment. Besides, you wouldn't want to work with Anderson."

Sherlock scowled. "No." He sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I'll be back; I have to go bribe a pathologist."

Molly Hooper would do practically anything Sherlock could ask of her, if he asked in the correct fashion. Today, he brought the offerings of coffee and a warm smile, which he hoped would be enough of an effort.

He opened the door of the morgue, striding in as per usual. Molly looked up from a cadaver on her table. "Oh, Sherlock." She eyed him up and down through her goggles, squinting. "Is that a coffee?"

"Milk, one sugar, for you."

She frowned. "Thanks but I…well, I don't quite have the hands for it right now." She gestured to the body, where her hands were carefully removing organs for weighing. "I'll have to start this tape all over again."

"It can wait."

She frowned, confused. "Are you feeling okay? You can never wait."

"John's gone for the week."

"Oh." She nodded awkwardly, dejected. "I'm your replacement John, then, aren't I?"

Shit, that was _not_ the response he wanted. "No, you're not my replacement John, you're Molly, and I _really_ need Molly right now, not John."

She looked him up and down. "I have work."

"It's for a police investigation. I'm sure your overseer would—"

"A _police investigation?_ Sherlock, that's _not_ my line of work!"

"I thought your line of work involved examining cadavers."

"Well, yes, but—"

"But what? It seems to be your area."

"_Sherlock_—"

"You'll come with me, then?"

She took a deep breath, her hands held in front of her, curled in frustration. She bit her lip, looking around the morgue, searching for a reason to say no. "Milk and sugar, you said?"

He smiled. "We've no time to lose."

"I really, really should finish this autopsy."

"If we stall, we're letting the serial killer get farther away."

"Serial—Sherlock—a _serial killer?_ You're bringing me out to look at—at the body of a murder victim? To a case related to a _serial killer_?"

"It's speculation, no one murders _one_ person as intricately as this."

"If I vomit—"

"Molly, you cut open people for a living."

"Yes, but I don't deal with the crime scenes, ever. I deal with the bodies. You've got me under the impression that this is a rather disturbing one."

"Yes…it is."

"No, Sherlock."

"Please?"

Molly rolled her eyes, trying to avoid his begging face. "Fine. Fine. But I _will_ finish this first, okay?"

Sherlock escorted Molly through the throng of police and crime scene team. She had insisted on keeping her uniform on, not wanting to be denied after coming all the way out in midmorning. Sherlock had assured her that she would be fine—she was with him, after all—but she wanted nothing to do with it.

"Oh my god," she breathed upon entering the sanctuary. "How long has—um, has that been there?"

"They think since the middle of the night. Lestrade is having a terrible time trying to get the body down."

"I'm really not prepared to do a crime scene analysis, you realize."

"I do, and I'm not asking you to. I just need you to be John."

"But you said I _wasn't_ filling in for John."

Sherlock cursed himself internally. "You're not. I need to bounce ideas off someone, and you have a reasonable knowledge of the human body."

She laughed humorlessly. "_Reasonable knowledge_."

"I'll take you to lunch after."

Molly folded her arms. "Where?"

"The Ivory."

"Was there yesterday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. The fancy little coffee shop you constantly walk by and stare at longingly."

Molly gaped. "How did you—"

"I'm me. I'll throw in lunch tomorrow as well, final offer."

She looked at him grudgingly. "You really do need me. Deal. Have they ID'd the body yet?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called as they approached the altar. "What progress has been made?"

"As you can see, the body is still suspended," Lestrade grumbled. "Oh, hello Molly."

"Hello, Greg."

"Are you trying to put all of us out of work?" he asked Sherlock.

"She's here to assist me, since you won't. Now, what details have you found?"

"There's nothing on the body."

"Really? Could have sworn there was, perhaps I'm going blind."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Unless you can deduce the location of his clothes like you did that bloody suitcase, I don't want to hear it."

"Did you check if there are any spaces above?"

Lestrade turned to Molly, cocking an eyebrow.

"You have a body hanging from the ceiling; it's more than two-stories tall. I doubt they used a ladder."

"And _that's_ why I brought her along," Sherlock said with a gloating smile.

One of the cops pointed Sherlock to a staircase upstairs. It was small, narrow, and cramped; too short for him to stand. There was an all-encompassing smell of rotting wood, and the stairs creaked as they trekked upwards.

"There are footprints in the dust," Molly remarked ahead of him.

He watched as her flashlight searched for broken steps. "How many sets?"

"Three or four—I think there's a possibility they use this passage to fix the chandeliers, though, there are some bolts scattered around."

"It's not safe to make assumptions without all the facts, Molly."

"Right, sorry. I'm not you; my brain's not hardwired for this mystery business." She stopped and turned around. "What if we don't find anything up here?"

"Then we check other places, we examine the body for prints, the scene for evidence, DNA—normal procedures."

"Ah." She nodded and turned back around, climbing quicker.

The ascent didn't take much longer, and the detective and his pathologist found themselves in an alcove overlooking the sanctuary, another staircase leading deeper into the maze-like infrastructure of the church. "How much farther up do you think it goes?" Molly asked, staring at the shorter door.

"Too far," he said with annoyance.

"I'm going to go check upstairs, okay?"

"I'll be right up," he said, distracted. Sherlock scanned the level. The platform they stood on was small, with an identical one directly across. That one was locked, said the cop downstairs, and they weren't about to break the door down for him. It seemed unlikely the killer had a key, unless he were involved in the church—based on the nature and intricacy of the crime, it was a possible case, but not a definite one. With a naked corpse and no visible evidence, he was working entirely on estimates and basic inferences.

Ten minutes after he drowned himself in thought, there was a scampering down the steps. "Sherlock!"

He turned to see Molly hurrying down and racing across to him. "I found something."

It was a scrap of clothing—a red shirt. He held out a gloved hand and Molly laid the material on his palm. It was…_stiff_…oh. It was a white shirt, stained dark with blood. A thin, off-white grainy substance coated the cloth. "Where did you find this?"

"Upstairs, practically in plain sight. I'm not sure our killer is too intelligent."

"Show me."

She led him up, up into the walls, climbing a spiral staircase to another wooden platform. It wrapped all the way around the perimeter of the building, hugging the walls tightly. It got wider towards the front of the space, where the long metal tubes of the organ erupted from the boards and clung like brittle ivy to the stony walls. The wood creaked under their weight, the railing shaking as they hurried to the center of the room.

Barely ahead of Sherlock, Molly disappeared into the wall, up another flight of stairs. "There's a false ceiling," she called behind her, "so they can adjust the chandeliers. I _told _you that's what this passage was for."

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"I did my fair share of snooping around places I shouldn't've been as a kid, it seemed only logical."

Sherlock grinned. He _had_ made a good pick in asking Molly.

The staircase opened onto a wooden expanse that covered the entire space below. Chains were drawn up through the fake ceiling, mounted tightly to the actual roof, strange casings secured by thick metal bolts. A crank system was fixed by open spaces in the wood, allowing the chandeliers to be dragged up or lowered down.

"He pulled the chandelier up from here," Sherlock said, standing beside the thickest chain, looking down into the main body of the church through a wide, circular hole. It was bigger than the grand chandelier below. "He cranked it up and attached the body with ropes. This space, this hole here would have allowed them to pull the entire thing through the ceiling. It wasn't dangerous." He gave a tug on the lever. It didn't budge—the resistance was _much_ more than he could handle alone. "This was a two-person job."

Molly frowned. "Could it have been one really strong guy?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Far too heavy. It needs two relatively strong men to operate. Where did you find the cloth?"

"It was caught in the chain. Completely in plain sight."

"That's…incredibly careless. Unless…"

"Unless?"

"It was on purpose."

"Why—"

"Profile of a psychopath, Molly. They want to be caught; it's an art form to them, a cry for attention. They want to be found. This one—or two—is no different. It's all a game." He turned to her, a glint in his eye. "And we're players."

"Should we go tell Lestrade?"

Sherlock shrugged, in no hurry to report to the detective inspector. "Might as well." He stood over the hole in the ceiling. "_LESTRADE!"_

Down below in the sanctuary, the detective jumped. Sherlock laughed.

"I could have called him, you know. I _do _have his number."

"So do I, but I find this more entertaining. You can send a text for me, though; tell him we need one of his stronger men upstairs to help with this contraption."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock found himself back in front of the altar, listening to Lestrade give his men instructions on removing the body. They had lowered the chandelier (with _much_ physical effort) to a reasonable distance from the ground, with the bottom reachable with a short latter.

"We make a good team," Molly said beside him, indulging in a second coffee. "Can't believe we've never tried that before."

"Having both you and John around would be excessive," Sherlock said, folding his arms.

"I _did_ help out."

"That you did."

"And you owe me lunch."

He nodded. "That I do."

"Think they've got it for now?"

"Who knows, they seem to be completely incompetent without me."

Molly laughed. "I have to make a phone call, but we'll go after?'

"Fine by me."

Molly slipped away to the back of the sanctuary. She punched in a number and waited anxiously through the dial tone, drumming her fingers on her thigh.

At last, the ring was interrupted by a familiar voice. "What is it, pet?"

"They're lowering the Messiah."

"You baited them, did you, Little Red?"

"Might have, we might have just _fucked up royally_."

"Oh, kibbles, what happened?"

"I—" she stopped, choking on laughter. "Did you just use _kibbles_ as a swear?"

"I'm in a _library_, sweetheart, no swearing in here, it's bad karma. You're avoiding my question."

"Part of the shirt got stuck in the chain, so I used it to our advantage. It's for the best, I think, because now we won't have to wait _ages_ for them to ID the body."

"You think they'll catch our guy?"

"Sherlock's pet is out of town for the week, and I'm the designated replacement. I figure if they're not going where we want, I can always steer them in the right direction."

"So on top of things, Molly. It's almost as if you take after me."

"Hey, _I _am in charge around here."

"Right you are. So…I'll see you after work?"

"Yup, we've got to catch ourselves a lamb."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, wow, hi, _this story is going to be long._

So yes, Darkfic. Let me know if you see any weird, awkward sentences, poor grammar, and general accidental use of incorrect words.

I don't really know what else to say except I'm not sure how much I like that last bit, so feel free to drop an opinion on that.

(Thanks for reading!)


	2. Ave Maria: Part 2

"So where has John gone?" Molly asked, looking up from the menu. Sherlock was good to his word, and they were now seated in a window at _La Bello_, the little shop that evaded her price range when not with friends. Her bill was on him today, and she was considering making his wallet miserable.

"To visit family or something, upon his sister's request," Sherlock replied, not making eye contact. He was distant and cold, as per usual. He made a disgruntled face at the menu, no doubt seeing the prices. "He'll be gone for the week, maybe more depending on the situation."

_Perfect_, Molly thought, sipping her water. "We don't have to come here again tomorrow, if the prices are bothering you that much."

"It's not the prices, it's the _coffee_. I can't make sense of any of this. Italian isn't an area of expertise for me."

"You're not one for flavored coffees?"

He shook his head, setting the vinyl booklet down, frustrated. "I want something _simple_, not full of, of _syrups_ and creams and sauces. Just…plain coffee."

"Do you want me to order for you, then?"

"If it solves the issue, yes."

"It would be my pleasure."

She handled the order when the waitress returned. The girl recognized Sherlock, however, and continued to stare at him, uncomfortable. Molly detailed her lunch and coffee, knowing full well what she wanted and how it was to be prepared—though she did not come alone, her lunch time was often stolen away here. Sherlock was right—she did look in the windows longingly, but it was not because she wished to grab a drink. She took a quick peek around. He wasn't lounging on his usual sofa, no evidence of him or his far-too-sweet everything-in-it caffeinated concoctions, no light tapping of his fingers across his tablet.

_Good_.

"Am I on case until John gets back?" Molly asked when their beverages arrived.

"You're on until it's over, or until you want to quit, I suppose, though I'd appreciate if you saw it through," Sherlock said, taking a tentative sip. "It's better to bounce ideas off someone with a smart brain."

"I'm flattered, Sherlock."

"Then you'll stay on," he said with a quick, forced smile. She could tell he wasn't enjoying himself—here he was, with a woman who fawned over him—_falsely, _she might add—in an over-priced coffee shop, stuck staying for lunch while a killer was running around. She'd be pretty annoyed if she were in his position as well.

"As long as you need me."

"Then I'd like you to help me with the body when they go to examine it. I'm curious as to how those knives were attached to the back."

"If we're not up until some ungodly hour, I'll try my best."

Molly's food came at the same moment that her phone buzzed. She glanced down into her lap at the illuminated screen, squinting to make out the letters of the text.

_"Lamb and ewe captured, love_, it read, _ready for dissection. –M_

_ P.S. xxxxxxxx"_

That was _fast_. He must have started working on the next step before she okayed him. _"You know who to call; make arrangements. I'll be around in two or three hours."_

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised a smidgen.

"A friend," Molly lied. All right, fine, half-lied. He wasn't exactly a _friend_.

Her phone vibrated again. _"What, no kisses? I'm offended."_

_"Are you surprised?"_

_"…yes actually. I'm going to take a nap, bring home bubbles?"_

_ "I hope you have a fancy dinner in mind."_

_ "I may, I may not. See you in my dreams~"_

Eugh, he was being too cutesy. Molly sometimes had a hard time remembering this was the same man that chained her to beds to with leathers and silks.

He studied her during the entire textual conversation; she could feel his eyes on her, examining the twitches in her face, the slight raise of her eyebrows and the curling of her lips. He didn't believe her.

"_Just_ a friend, Molly?"

"Just a friend," she reassured him, setting the phone down beside her. He wouldn't text anymore, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to deduce anything more if she kept her face calm.

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, still scrutinizing her. _What did he care? She was just his morgue mouse, nothing more._

There was a buzz and Molly instinctively reached for her phone—

"It's me," Sherlock said, rifling through his pockets, pulling out a sleek black phone. "They've ID'd the body." He looked up at her. "Lestrade needs me, do you mind if I—"

"Not at all. Just so long as you keep the second half of your promise tomorrow."

He passed her a sum of money, got up, and hurried to the door in a desperate but dignified fashion that only Sherlock Holmes could manage. Molly bit into her sandwich. It looked like she'd be back sooner than she originally though.

* * *

Molly took the next half hour to search through several liquor stores before locating the correct brand of champagne. Her boy had expensive tastes—wouldn't settle for less than Cristal—and it was sometimes exhausting (for both her and her wallet) to find something that suited him. Her detour today was going to cost him.

She entered James Moriarty's flat as though it were her own. She stripped her coat and scarf at the door, hanging them neatly in the closet. She kicked off her shoes and headed to the kitchen. She stored the champagne in the wine cooler and poured herself a glass of wine—it was more than half gone, most likely opened a week ago.

"James?"

There was a slow thumping down the stairs and Moriarty's face appeared over the sink where the stairs filtered through the kitchen. "You're early."

"Did you manage to sleep?" Molly asked, washing her hands. He was wrapped in his black duvet, but it was impossible to tell when he was newly awake or just bored and grumpy from work.

"You woke me up."

"Not the first time it's happened. Do you want anything?"

"Toast and caviar."

"I can do one of those."

He grumbled and stood, clomping the rest of the way down and into the kitchen. The space was off for his tastes—it was white with black granite countertops and silver faucets. He was more for bold colors—deep crimsons and piercing greens (though his room was a pale, unobtrusive blue).

"Any news?" he asked, sliding onto a stool. The duvet fell slightly from his shoulders, exposing his pale, wiry frame.

"Nothing especially new. They ID'd the body before I left, so I think the motive will be discovered soon." She popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. "Tea, love?"

He shook his head. "Nah, not sure I want to wake up fully; haven't slept in a few days."

"I can leave if you want."

"I don't like that idea either," he said, gesturing for her to come closer.

She obeyed, crossing behind the island. "What idea do you like?" Molly asked as he slid his hands around her waist.

"Lots of ideas. For example, I like the idea of you out of those _hideous_ clothes. Really, pet, _that_ blouse? A blind man dresses better than this," he scoffed, untucking her shirt from her trousers and rolling it up past her navel.

"I can dress well, but St. Bart's Molly can't. She's not very confident."

"Bet she doesn't strut in lacy pants like _my_ Molly does. Which pair are you wearing today?" He dipped his fingers into her trousers and hiked up the waistband of her underwear. "Oh, is that lace?"

"Silk with a lace trim, actually."

He raised an eyebrow and looked up, smirking. "_Those_ panties. Are you wearing the matching bra?" Not waiting for an answer, he snaked his hands up her shirt, cupping her breasts. "You _are_. Does that mean what I think it means?"

She leaned down, pressing her lips to his ear. "You have ten seconds to remove your hands or I'm tying them behind your back for the whole time."

His fingers slipped under her bra, gently teasing her nipples. Molly choked back a gasp at his cold touch. "What if I want you to tie me up?"

She bit his ear. "Then I'll build you up and walk off before you reach climax, leaving you tied up on the couch, unable to finish yourself."

"You'd purposefully give me blue balls? That's the cruelest plan ever to come out of your mouth."

"Worse than the lamb and ewe?"

"Um, yes, ten times worse." He released his grip on her breasts, bringing his hands back to rest on her waist. "You win this round, Molls."

"I always win, Jim."

"So, the couch? Let's not tell Sebastian, he won't be able to sit there for a month."

Molly laughed and pushed the duvet further off his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Let's tell him, then, I want to be able to lie down without kicking him for once."

"So _cruel_ today, Little Red. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were taking after me."

"Pretty sure you're the one taking after _me_," she said, nipping his cheek. "At least one of us is learning from the best."

"I think you should fix me toast as payment, since it's clearly me," he said after the toaster popped.

"I think you should fix it yourself, you lazy bastard, because it's _not_ you."

Jim shrugged. "Fine." He stood and sauntered across the kitchen, leaving the duvet behind on the stool. He did this on purpose, she knew, teasing her with his bare back. It worked; the sight of his lean, exposed shoulders sent a shiver of want through her core.

"I hate when you walk around shirtless."

He pulled a jar of jam from the fridge. "Do you?"

"It makes me want to rake my nails down your back."

"Half the time you end up doing that, you know, sweetheart. And half of that half, you scratch me raw."

"But you like it, don't you?" Molly asked as she crossed to him, running her fingers down his back. "You moan every time."

"Do _not_."

"Do _too._ Want me to prove it?" Her hands migrated to his front, slipping down his chest and stomach, stopping at the waistband of his underwear. He growled as a hand trailed underneath, stopping just above the base of his cock.

"Do you _mind_? I'm trying to prepare toast and you're just being distracting."

"Oh, but Jim, I always mind unless I get my way."

"And when do you get your way?"

"When you're groaning like a beast in heat under me."

"I do not groan like a…a _beast in heat_."

"Fine, you scream like a girl when you come."

Moriarty spun around, backing Molly up against the island. "Repeat yourself."

"You scream like a breathy, excited girl when you climax," she said with a wicked grin.

He snarled. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're goading me into taking you on the counter."

"But you do know better, and you know that's not what I want; I can't top you in this position."

"Who says I want you to top me?"

"Because you _love _when I top. You groan louder, breathe heavier."

A smile played around his lips. "Don't you ever get bored of it? Turning people into animals?"

She shrugged. "No." She kissed him hard on the mouth, fingers locking into his dark hair, pushing forward until she had him pinned against the sink. "I quite enjoy being in control."

"That's my girl." He grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I think I have to forget about this toast."

"I think you have to forget about the toast and carry me into the other room."

"I agree," he said, hoisting her into his arms. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him. "But only if you take that awful shirt off."

Molly rolled her eyes and pulled the blouse over her head. "Happy?"

"Of course. I love this bra," he said with a hungry grin. "It shapes you beautifully and gives you cleavage, why _wouldn't _I be happy?"

"Is cleavage such a spectacular thing?"

In response, he pressed his face into her chest, nibbling at both breasts simultaneously. She unintentionally let out a mewl and felt his laughter in her ribs. "Answered your own question."

"If you keep this up any longer, I'm going to be wet before we _do_ anything."

"Great, then we won't go through so many bottles of lube."

She leaned down and placed a kiss on his nose. "Couch."

"So _domestic_, Miss Hooper. Are you going soft on me?" he teased, carrying her down the three steps to the living room.

"On the contrary, Mister Moriarty," Molly said as he set her down on her feet and slipped off her trousers. "I think you'll find you're going hard on me." She swiftly cupped his dick and bit the thin skin of his collarbone.

"I hate when you do this," he choked out, voice climbing the octave.

"I love it," she said into his neck, nudging him down onto the black leather sofa, one hand stroking his member, the other playing with his hair. The combination caused the most pleased look anyone could coax onto the criminal mastermind's face. "I love it because I love when you grow in my hands."

"You just want me to be putty, you want me to—_oh god, _just a _little_ firmer, pet—to melt in your palms, don't you?"

"I'd rather you melt _in_ me today, considering you did that last time."

"I apologized, didn't I?"

"You did," she said, moving to straddle him before kissing up his stomach. "But that doesn't make up for my lost enjoyment."

"Well that's why I'll make it up to you now."

"What are you going to do to me, then?"

"First I'm going to get that bra off you; it's just impeding my teeth." His long fingers glided up her back and unhooked the lacy garment, pulling it down her arms and tossing it lazily to the floor. "Sit up for me?"

She obeyed, rocking her hips against him, his bulge pushing up against her inner thighs.

A small moan escaped his lips. "I'm still amazed at how perky they are, dove."

"They're not that big," she said quietly, returning to her position hovering over him.

"They fit in my hands. And they fit in my mouth." He brought her down closer, sucking hard on one of her nipples. She hissed in pain, and he responded by kneading her other breast with his free hand.

"Jim—James—_James_! That—_fuck, _that _hurts!_ I—_oh my god what are you doing with your tongue_."

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, her breast still in his mouth.

"Yes but no," Molly whined, curling into him. "I hate this."

"Payback," he said and flicked his tongue over one nipple and pinched the other.

"Payback the other side this one _hurts_," she moaned, nudging him away from her throbbing breast.

"If you say so, my sweet." The devil himself took her breast in his mouth and did something wild with his tongue, causing her to cry out. "I love hearing you moan," he said quietly, licking up to her clavicle. "It's so…_feral_."

"You have such a hard-on for the wild things," she remarked, feeling her throat getting ragged.

"No, currently I have a hard-on for _you,_ pet." He took one of her hands and guided it to his erection, having her stroke it up and down. "See? All your fault."

"Bet I can make it harder," she said before lowering herself to kiss him. He bit at her lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth, where it proceeded to do unspeakable, wonderful things. Molly soon found her hands gripping at his hair as James Moriarty flipped her onto her back, one of his hands sliding under her panties, fingers toying with and teasing her clit. She'd let this breech of dominance go this once; she couldn't think straight and he was delectable, marvelous gold when enthused.

The lock on the door clicked as soon as he slipped two fingers inside her.

"I am going to _kill_ Sebastian," Jim growled, removing his hand from her knickers and tossing the blanket from the back of the couch over Molly's exposed skin. "We should _really_ do this in not the front entryway next time." He remained on top of her, hovering over her like a guard dog.

The door pushed open and Colonel Sebastian Moran stepped into the flat. His expression immediately soured and he looked away, sighing. "You two _really_ need a room, I'm sick to death of walking in on you shagging like rabbits."

"We didn't even get to the shagging part," Jim said with a pout.

"Whatever. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this case needs your attention, Moriarty."

Jim scowled, giving Molly an affectionate peck on the lips before standing. "I'm going to have the worst case of blue balls," he grumbled, walking into the kitchen for his duvet. "You'll have to cure me, doctor!"

"Sorry, boss," Moran muttered, not looking at Molly.

"It's fine," she sighed. "Not like it doesn't happen constantly."

"Molly, darling, did you buy me a vintage Perrier-Jouët?" Jim called from the kitchen, head in the wine cooler.

"I had to go to that one really fancy little wine boutique for it; cost practically half my salary."

"You didn't have to get something this nice," he said, walking back with his duvet draped over his shoulders like a cape. "I didn't have anything _that_ special in mind."

"Well I did," she said, retrieving her bra from the floor. "It's the anniversary of our partnership."

"…_shit_. I _knew_ I forgot something! I'll make dinner arrangements. I can always pull strings." He gave her an apologetic peck on the cheek. "I called your guy; he's got a church in mind and has brought the two to the slaughterhouse. You're pouting. Why are you still pouting?"

Molly folded her arms and looked down, milking him for everything she could get. This was too _easy_. There were three things James Moriarty loathed with every cell in his body: vanilla scented candles, Sherlock Holmes, and Molly's pout. He'd burn a city down if she asked just to get rid of that pout.

It was _quite_ clear who wore the pants in their relationship.

He kissed her again. "I'm _sorry_. I only have _half of London_ to think about on a daily basis. I'll get you a necklace or something just _stop __**pouting**_**.**"

"Deal," she said with a grin, rubbing her forehead against his.

"Sometimes I forget the two of you are the most dangerous criminals in London," Sebastian cut in. "I mean, not that it's difficult to or anything, just unexpected that two notorious masterminds known for their brutality are sickly sweet when together."

"Another word and I'll keep your tongue in the freezer," Jim said without a change in tone, fingers in Molly's hair. He turned to the sniper, a cherubic smile on his face. "What do you need now, Seb?"

"The Lake case."

"Ah, yes, I'll get dressed." He turned to Molly. "How does 7:30 sound? At the Fox, or—"

"For once let's not go to HQ. Please?"

He chewed his lip, a list of restaurants where he had connections no doubt circling through his mind. "Fine, button. I'll surprise you, how about that?"

"Fine with me. Until then, I should head back to my current case." She picked her trousers off the floor and headed into the kitchen for her blouse. "Text me the address."

"I'll come get you; I want it to be a _real_ surprise."

She rolled her eyes, heading to the guest room. "Fine. See you then."

Molly closed her door and went straight to the mirror-doors of the closet. Her neck was patched with red splotches, some vibrant, others dull, like fresh bruises. It was going to be difficult to cover them all up, with next to no makeup at Moriarty's flat. She'd have to go buy a green concealer stick, earn a few glances, _especially_ when exiting the building—they all knew who lived at the top, which man she came to visit day after day. They didn't know who she was, though, he was careful about that. Didn't want anyone targeting her—too _protective_, her James. She wondered what the staff thought of her—was she a common prostitute, a doctor, an accountant, a friend, a relative?

It didn't matter. She was the deer, the blue jay, the mantis; he was the fox, the magpie, the spider. When they had first met, she was Little Red, and he, the Wolf. Now it was nearly impossible to tell who took on which role. They would always be in a power struggle, two dynamic halves fighting for dominance.

After searching (in vain) for a spare green stick and foundation, Molly pulled her clothes back on and headed down to the ground level of the hotel where James Moriarty made his permanent residence. There would be makeup somewhere here, she knew, and the woman at the counter would eye her up and down and make her judgments about the young woman covered in hickies, wearing _that man's_ symbol around her neck for protection.

It didn't bother Molly. With a simple word, she could have whomever she wanted dead in a ditch within an hour. That's all that mattered when playing the game.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, I see you, you poor confused souls going "...but wait this is supposed to be Sherlolly."  
Shhhhh it's got both pairings, let me get there. Molls has more of an interest in her James at this point in time.

I'm compiling these crazy playlists for the characters, they're almost done. I'd suggest listening to **Wow and Flutter by April Smith and the Great Picture Show** for this chapter because character relations.

So yeeeaaaahhh. The most adorable criminals ever. Uh, thoughts on that?

(love all you for reading you're precious people thanks dears)


	3. Ave Maria: Part 3

Molly spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding Sherlock. She holed up in the break room, sent the interns to deal with him, took far too many coffee breaks, ran unnecessary tests—anything to get out of his line of sight.

He'd notice.

He'd notice the bright red of her neck, the sex flush fleeting from her chest, the concealer, her general jitteriness. Even if the muscle tremors could easily be disguised as nervousness, the other signs were indicative of a sexual partner—something he couldn't know she had. It would ruin the entire façade. Cover-up was only getting her so far in this jumble. To her disadvantage, one of the buttons had gone missing from her blouse; if he even _glimpsed _at her, he would know something was wrong.

"Molly!"

_Shit_.

She turned around to see the detective making haste towards her, his coat fawning out behind him like the wings of a great raptor, dark and capturing. "I've been searching for you all afternoon."

"You have?" She twisted a loose strand of hair, already worried about her appearance. Maybe he wouldn't take note.

Sherlock frowned. "Your chest is red."

"Oh, I…it's a rash." Molly pulled the sides of her blouse closer together. "I used the wrong cream this morning, made it worse."

He eyed her suspiciously, but didn't press the matter. "Have you seen the body?"

She nodded—however, she honestly hadn't. There was no time during her avoidance escapade. She knew the corpse well enough, having planted the damn thing. She knew the knives had been stripped of their handles and the metal was melted onto the flesh—Jim's idea. She knew which drugs had been used, which cuts had been made after death to make the whole thing a kick more biblical.

She knew which organ was missing, and knew a police examiner would miss the incision due to the burnt nature of the tissues.

"I didn't stomach it very well, went for air," she said meekly, looking down to accentuate her act. "Bodies are one thing, brutal mutilation is another."

"I need to stay in the lab late tonight."

"For how long?" She needed to get home to change.

"Half the night at least. Molly, are you wearing makeup?"

…Was she? Christ, she'd need to shower and reapply it now. That would waste even _more_ time. "Am I?"

"It looks nice; it brings out the warmth in your eyes."

There was no warmth in her eyes. Autopilot made her giggle. "Really, I didn't think—no, _no_, Sherlock, I have plans."

"Molly—"

"I have to go home, shower, get ready."

"You can be late—"

"I doubt my date will find that amusing."

"Date?"

He wasn't supposed to hear that. "Not really a date—an old friend. He asked me to dinner, to catch up, and it's been a while since I've seen him and I'd really rather not have a terrible show of manners and show up late."

He glanced away from her face, calculating. "I'll take you to dinner tomorrow."

She raised an eyebrow. "On top of lunch?"

"No lunch; tea and dinner."

She gave him a hard look, trying to burn a hole through him—it didn't work, obviously, her glare not intimidating in this ridiculous alias. She walked to him and took his hand, pressing cool, jagged metal into his palm. "Lock up when you leave, don't forget to turn off the unused power strips. You know when the custodians come around—tell them you have my permission. I'll see you in the morning."

"You won't stay to make sure I don't break your equipment?" he asked with a smirk.

Molly returned with an equally fiendish grin and spun on her heel to the exit. "You're all grown up now, Sherlock; I trust you can take care of yourself."

* * *

Molly arrived home around six, with little to no time to get ready for dinner. She didn't even have an outfit in mind—most of her nice dresses were at Jim's, anyway. She expected this to be semi-formal, so there was a possibility a Little Black Dress was hiding in the back of her closet.

Right. It was the tight one with the slight and bright red lining. That one.

_Right_. Molly sighed. It was too dynamic, and she didn't want to do wild makeup to match the daring air of the dress. She'd do naturals or something, with bright lipstick.

With her clothes and undergarments laid out on the towel rack, Molly stepped into the shower, twisting on the hot water. It streamed down her head, rolling off her back and arms, scalding down her legs. She washed the scents of two distinct men off her skin, soap bubbles scrubbing their images from her mind. She could deal with neither for long periods of time, no matter what emotion she chose to display around them. Sherlock was demanding and coarse, rough and painful, stinging like a scraped knee. She didn't care for him, true, but his comments hit hard like lobbed stones. She was never sure if she should curl under his disdain or sic a knife through his throat and watch the blood bubble forth.

And Jim. _Jim_. Don't let her get started with him. Capricious, careful, crafty. He was alternately affectionate and cold. Every moment between them was a dangerous dance, a waltz of knives. One misstep and a wound opened, shiny and slick with blood. When she thought of offing Sherlock only once or twice, it was a daily thought with Jim. No doubt he thought about killing her too. It was a gesture of affection for him. Weird, twisted little man.

She ran shampoo through her hair, lathering out the sweat and dirt from earlier, cleaning the day's adventures from her senses. She needed to calm down. She could think about killing people, but that didn't mean it was a swell idea to go _follow those thoughts through_. Killing Sherlock would cut off her amusement, and as much as she detested his treatment of her, he was interesting to keep close. Killing James would kill her motive, her method, and her muse. That was a poorer idea than bleeding out the detective. Also, she liked James. He was sweet. Really, disgustingly sweet. Like a candy shop. It caught her off guard.

She stepped out of the steaming glass doors, a pure white towel wrapped tightly to her body, a clean slate to both men. She smiled to herself—only after a shower was she truly pure. Molly toweled her hair and hooked her bra, securing the towel about her waist. Now, she could go about the female ritual of face painting. Light colors, just as planned, with bright cherry to stain her lips, the red of oxidized blood. Jim would be pleased, might even make a comment about the murderous color if he got drunk enough.

A car pulled up for her at exactly seven-thirty, black and sleek. Inside was not Moriarty as she expected, but Moran.

"Oh, Sebastian, hullo," she said as she slid into a seat, trying to (unsuccessfully) hide her surprise.

"James sends his regards and apologies, but he wanted it to be, and I quote here, a 'perfect, complete mystery,' whatever that means."

"I think he means he wants to be kept a secret as well." A thought struck her and Molly felt a wave of panic rush over her. "I'm not supposed to be in black tie, am I?"

"No, not that fancy, boss. I'm sure you're fine."

"You've not been working with Jim as long as I have."

"But I've been working with _you_ for longer, and from what I've gathered, he wouldn't throw you completely out of your element. He's cruel, but there's a method to his callousness. You're part of his image. Would you sabotage him only to be seen with him in public hours later?"

She thought a moment, chewing her lip. "No, probably not."

"There you have it. Also, he seems to…" Sebastian rolled his eyes, searching for a word. "_Care_ about you. Genuinely care."

Molly looked away, hiding the betrayal of her cheeks. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Haven't the foggiest, boss."

Molly nodded and sat back against the leather interior. This couldn't be more than a half-hour ride.

Molly couldn't say she was surprised when the car pulled up in front of a seemingly inconspicuous brick building. She smiled as Moran helped her onto the sidewalk. "_Le Gavroche?_ Isn't that a little pricy for his tastes?"

"He spends a lot on you."

"He always has."

Sebastian escorted her as far as the door, babbling about some instructions not to enter the restaurant with her, made by the fox himself. He backed away as Molly hid a laugh behind a glove. He gave her a salute and got back into the car as she opened the dark wood door.

It was busy.

The upstairs was clogged with people waiting for tables, all sitting around and chatting. The maître d'hôtel was nowhere to be found. Molly looked like a deer in the headlights, standing awkwardly just inside the door with nowhere to go.

"We won't have a table for another hour and a half," said a tall, pretty, black girl as she took her place behind the reservations book. "That is, of course, unless you've a reservation. You came on a busy night, miss. Are you waiting on someone?"

"Erm." He would be downstairs, that much was certain, but she had _no idea_ what name he put down. "Here's where it gets complicated. There should be a man downstairs, taller than me, dark hair, probably better dressed than the queen, and I _think_ he's got red somewhere in his ensemble. He didn't tell me what name our reservation's under."

"So just give me his and yours and I'll check—"

"No, I mean he _changes the name every time._"

She cocked an eyebrow. "He's a pale bloke with a steely look in his eyes?"

"Yes."

"Oh, _James_."

She stepped from behind her post and led Molly through the room to the stairs. "He came in an hour ago and just spoke to the manager and got reservations, _as per usual_. I'd say to watch yourself around him, miss, but that's both highly unprofessional and also what I take to be already understood information."

"Trust me, I'm very careful."

The room below was darker, the lights dimmed to a perfect amount. The whole layout was red—bright red, in fact—and decorated in a lavish older style. Molly spotted Jim as soon as she stepped off the stairs. He was in a darker corner, tucked into a velvet green booth, with the two tables next to him vacant. He must have pulled a _lot_ of strings.

The maître d' left her at his table with a smile before returning to her post upstairs.

"I didn't think Alissa'd bring you down herself," he drawled as she sat across from him. "Guess they're really short-staffed tonight."

"She told me you just rang and got a table."

"I know people, pet. It's always been that way."

"The master of planning doesn't plan in advance?"

"I do plan in advance just…sometimes I forget."

"Like tonight."

"I already feel terrible about that; please don't rub it in my face."

"Did you just say please?"

Moriarty groaned, sitting back into the plush seat. He was exquisitely dressed, in a deep black suit with a red silk tie and matching pocket square. His cufflinks, she noticed, were dazzling rubies. He did very well in the coordination department. Also, he managed to match her perfectly.

"How did you know I'd be accenting red this evening?"

"Did some inductions, figured the only acceptable dress you had at yours was the black and red one, considering all the rest of your cocktail dresses are at mine."

"Not my fault you keep slipping me out of them after dinners and galas."

He smirked. "I've got one left, haven't I?"

She rolled her eyes and opened her menu. "It's in French."

"Of course it's in French; we're in an upscale French restaurant. Do you want me to read it to you?"

She gave him a hard stare while biting her lip. "You might tell me the wrong things."

"I like teasing you _at home_. Never when we're out. It's impolite."

"Since when have you been a gentleman?"

"Honey, I've _always_ been a gentleman."

She did give in and let him read it to her. Of course, Moriarty did it completely in a French accent and a smirk. She ordered a marinated salmon in lemon and vodka jelly. He ordered some cut of grilled beef.

"Since tonight is a very important night that I _forgot about_, I'm picking up the tab, and I refuse to hear your argument against it."

She put down her fork. "You ordered expensive wine, didn't you?"  
"I guess you could say it's expensive."

"How much did you drop on the wine?"

"Three…hundred? Maybe three-twenty?"

"I only spent a hundred and fifty quid on that champagne!"

"Relax, Molly, it's not like I'd be considered _middle class_."

He was smiling. He was smiling and Molly felt unnerved. He was hiding something under that shark-like grin. Sure, he sometimes took cases with no pay, but he could be a _greedy _bastard when the time came. He had ulterior motives.

"You're worried, sweetheart."

"I'm suspicious."

"Calm down. We only have an anniversary once a year."

"Actually, we have two."

"Whatever. Stop concentrating on your displeasure of being lavished, and enjoy your food."

She did—and it was delicious.

A meal, petit fours, a bottle of wine, a car trip home, and a few glasses of scotch later, Molly found herself sitting across the coffee table from James in the den. It was the secluded room at the absolute back of the flat, connected by the dining room and the bathroom, which led back to the entryway. The lights were off, with candles lit around the room and the moon being the only light sources. There were none on the table (can't trust drunk people with candles), but instead a cheeseboard, a second bottle of wine, and glasses. He had taken her hand at some point that night and was stroking small circles into the back with his thumb.

"We are classy drunks," he said, cutting off a piece of cheese.

"Don't you want a cracker?"

"Crackers are for the weak."

"I'm eating the crackers. Does that make me weak?"

"No that makes you Molly. Crackers are for the weak and Molly. I think you could break my arm if you tried."

"Probably could."

"Let's not try that tonight. Just a _liiiiittle _bit too kinky for me."

Molly laughed and took another sip of her wine. She couldn't count how many glasses it had been since they started. She felt better not knowing the answer; she was going to be hungover anyway.

"Come sit with me."

"I don't think I trust myself to stand up and walk."

"Figure out a way."

"No."

"Yes."

Molly rolled her eyes and scooted under the glass table to sit beside him. "I am thirty-two years old and I am sliding underneath tables. I am actually five."

"That makes me seven. I can't be seven—that's too much of an age gap between us," Jim complained before finishing off his glass.

"What do you mean? Two years is still two years."

"No, when you're young, two years is like…twenty years. Seven-year-olds can't like five-year-olds. That's like you hitting on a guy in his mid-fifties."

"Good thing you're only thirty-four."

"Good thing," he agreed, clumsily pulling her into his lap. "Molly, I have something to tell you," he whispered.

"So tell me."

"It's a secret, Molly, do you promise to keep it?"

"I promise."

"We never even got to the champagne."

She snorted, burying her laughter into his chest. He laughed too, and she felt it through her whole body.

"That's not it, that's not it," he confessed as his breathing steadied. "That would be a terrible secret. It's still in the cooler; anyone can see that. The real secret is—are you ready for it?"

She nodded.

"I really like you, Molly. I really, really, really like you. I'm glad I didn't kill you all those years ago."

"I like you too, James. I'm glad I didn't slit your throat after that whole mess. I had planned to do that, you know."

"I know. I could see it. See it in those little scheming eyes of yours. That's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That you had to be mine. That I'd made a mistake and I didn't want to kill you, I wanted to keep you. I wanted you to be mine. And you are."

"You're very possessive, James."

"And don't you know it."

"You're also really chatty when drunk."

"There's a reason I watch myself most of the time."

"Sebastian's gonna be _so _upset if he finds us here in the morning."

Jim lifted her off and stood, offering a hand to help Molly to her feet. "You know, we can always go upstairs. I've still got one dress left to get you out of."

"Yes, you do."

He smirked and kissed her hard before pulling her through the bathroom to the hall, ascending the stairs with the grace and inability only known to the drunk. They didn't even make it to his room before Molly's dress was flung clumsily to the floor.

* * *

"Are you _sure_ that's what happened?"

Sherlock glared at John through the webcam. "Yes, I'm positive. Am I usually wrong?"

"No, but—"

"But?"  
"It just sounds…highly unlikely, doesn't it?"

Sherlock sat on a cold metal stool and sighed. He had been in Saint Bart's for most of the night. It was late. He was tired. His muscles ached from standing over the examination table, from rushing up to the lab and back down, from pacing—good _lord_ from pacing. He had been talking to empty air most of the night, and only recently thought of calling John. He was unhappy and had been asleep, but he was functioning well enough to assist, especially since Molly wasn't picking up her cell—odd, since she typically jumped to respond to him.

"I'm aware it sounds unlikely. I _know_. But no other explanations are making sense."

"You think a _woman_ did that?" John asked, a finger pointing to the body behind Sherlock. "It's a lot of heavy work, placing the body and everything."

"I think there was a woman _involved_. The killer or an accomplice, I don't know, but there certainly was one."

"All because of a lipstick smudge?"

"That and the distinct impressions of smaller hands on some of the bruise patterns. It seems pivotal."

"Maybe the killer just had small hands?"

He shook his head, sure of this. "No, no they were female hands. They were gentle."

"Gentle enough to bruise?"

"I know it doesn't make sense, or rather, not yet. But it's a woman. There is a woman involved."

John sighed and glanced at his watch. His face was worn with sleep and exhaustion, the blue glow of his screen emphasizing the tired look in his eyes. "Look, Sherlock, I love to help and all, but it's just shy of three in the morning. Do you still need me, or can I go back to sleep?"

"Go, I'll be fine. I'll stay overnight and wait for Molly."

"Molly? You're working with Molly?"

"I needed someone, you were busy—"

"I can always come back if it's imperative."

"It is not, I have Molly."

"Don't say anything too cruel to her, please? She already has to deal with you, there's no reason to force your personality at her."

Sherlock let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I've been playing nice. She's playing…not cripplingly infatuated, for once."

"Maybe, _hopefully_, she's learned to stay away from poisonous snakes."

He shook his head. _No, that's not it. _"It's something else."

"I'll text you in the morning, okay? Good night, Sherlock."

"Night, John."

The connection severed and he was left with a blank screen and a full head.

Molly found him lying on the floor of the morgue in the morning, his fingers steepled under his chin, a pained look on his sharp features, eyes closed. She nearly stepped on him, letting out a squeak upon her realization. "Sherlock, have you been there all night?"

"In this position? No. I have not left the hospital, if that was your question."

"You could use some sleep, I'll bet."

"I am perfectly awake."

"You're lying on the morgue floor."

He opened his mouth, but his words were cut off by a loud growl from his stomach. Sherlock's eyes flicked open and he frowned.

"I bet you're perfectly not hungry either, right?"

"No."

She extended a hand to him. "I'll take you to breakfast."

"In exchange for…?"

"I'll think of what I want later."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're milking me for everything I have."

She glanced up in thought. "I like to have a few favors at my beck and call."

He took her hand, rising to his full height, a full head over her. "Such a schemer, Molly. Didn't think you had it in you."

"There's a lot you don't think I have in me," she muttered under her breath, smile playing on her lips.

"What was that?"

"I asked where you wanted to go."

"I don't much care, I suppose, I'll just get a co—"

"You're eating food or I'm telling John."

Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "You've resorted to threats."

"I've started with threats; I can always take it further."

"Are you feeling quite well?"

"I'm a bit hungover and irritable. Pick a shop so I can buy you food and we can both go back to our respective jobs."

Irritable. That was the correct word. Molly had been very irritable recently. Maybe a lifestyle change or bad news regarding family. Something. It was throwing her behavior off, and in turn, throwing him off.

Wait. Hungover?

"Did you have a poor date?"

She noticeably jumped. "_What?_"

"You said you were hungover and irritable. It's one explanation."

"No…no I didn't have a bad date last night."

"So you had a date?"

"No! What is giving you this idea?"

"You said you were going out yesterday evening." He narrowed his eyes. "Breakfast, then?"

Molly sighed and marched to the door, leaving him behind in the dust. He'd be watching her a bit closer from now on. He didn't like the idea of Molly being…_involved_ with someone right now. It would slow down the case.

That's right. It would slow the case.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay I lied it's less case and more character interactions I'm sorry the only thing I can write is dialogue.

Everything gets grittier going on.

Thanks for all the favorites, follows, and reviews! It means a lot to me (especially the reviews)

If you have any questions, comments, corrections, or words of encouragement, don't be afraid to say anything!


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